


Remembrance

by Suryaofvulcan



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-11
Updated: 2006-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-16 07:04:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8092351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suryaofvulcan/pseuds/Suryaofvulcan
Summary: For the fallen. 'Enterprise' remembers.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: A/N: Written on 11/11/2006; Armistice Day. I may have mucked around with the Season 3 timeline a little.  


* * *

â€œIn two minutesâ€™ time, at 1100 hours, we will observe one minuteâ€™s silence in memory of our fallen comrades,â€ Captain Archerâ€™s voice came solemnly across the comm. â€œFuller, Markham, Jones â€¦â€

Trip Tucker stood back from his console in engineering as he listened to the Captain recite the names - the names of every crewmember who had died on this mission. Panels still sparked with random energy discharges, buckled bulkheads still needed fixing, but he and his engineering team stopped what they were doing in order to remember. 

Trip thought about Lizzie. His sister hadnâ€™t been big on memorials, but somehow it seemed fitting to think of her now, to include her in the list of those who had died in the conflict with the Xindi. One of the first, if truth be told. One of the seven million killed without warning by the Xindi probe. As he remembered the others, he silently added her name to the list.

â€œTazaki, Makela, Hawkins â€¦â€

Doctor Phlox laid a comforting hand on Corporal MacKenzieâ€™s arm, made a final adjustment to the womanâ€™s pain medication, and then withdrew. He thought about Denobula, about the conflicts his homeworld had been involved in in the past, and how they had collectively tried to bury those memories.

These Humans were different. They actively tried to remember their wars and their dead. He had learned from Lieutenant Reed that today was the anniversary of an ancient truce, that for centuries it had been reserved as a day of remembrance of those who had given their lives in armed conflict. Reed had explained to the slightly bemused doctor why was important to remember, to honour their sacrifice, and to do oneâ€™s damnedest to ensure it never happened again.

Phlox glanced across at the curtained biobed, and wondered how many more would give their lives in this conflict.

â€œClark, Romanova, Reichs â€¦â€

â€œThe needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one,â€ Tâ€™Pol recited quietly to herself as she sat at the station on the bridge. She had always accepted that as an axiom. It was logical to sacrifice one life to save many. It was an honourable way to die.

The people whose names the captain was reciting had given their lives to try to protect their homeworld, and yet more of the â€˜Enterpriseâ€™ crew might be called upon at any moment to do the same. On Earth, she had once visited a memorial in a small town which had been all but wiped out during the Eugenics Wars, and had been surprised to find it listed the name of each individual who had died not only in that conflict, but in the many others that had gone before. She had later learned that there were similar memorials in most of the cities, towns and villages on the planet.

On Vulcan, there were no such personal monuments. Conflict was remembered, always with some distaste, but except for a few, the names were lost in the mists of time. They had died for the greater good.

But perhaps the Humans had a point. Each dead crewman had been someoneâ€™s son or daughter, someoneâ€™s sibling, someoneâ€™s friend. It was fitting that she remember them.

â€œJohansson, Sim, Hayes â€¦â€

In the armoury, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, his security team, and the MACOs stood at parade rest beside the torpedo stacks, feet planted shoulder-width apart, backs straight with hands clasped behind them, eyes front and centre, as the names were recited over the comm.

As a boy Malcolm had stood this way many times with his scout troupe on Armistice Day, enacting the annual collective act of remembrance. Then, war had seemed like a far-off thing, something heâ€™d learned about in history books, something Humans didnâ€™t do any more. That was why his fatherâ€™s expectation that he would join the Royal Navy had seemed so ridiculous: what need was there for an armed naval fleet on Earth any longer?

But now he was facing the reality, out among the stars. Humans might not be hell-bent on killing each other any more, but there seemed to be plenty of aliens out here willing to do the job.

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, Wilfred Owen had written, with bitter irony, more than two centuries ago.

Each name the captain read out represented a failure on Malcolmâ€™s part. How many more would be added to the list? How much more blood on his hands?

â€œSingh, Taylor, Goldman â€¦â€

Goldman had been a friend, thought Travis, sitting at his helm station on the bridge. A fellow boomer, just joined up. His family ran the ECS â€˜Gagarinâ€™. Travis remembered when young Henry had first come aboard: how excited heâ€™d been to be assigned to â€™Enterpriseâ€™ on his very first off-world posting, Travis showing him around, playing the older brother, enjoying sharing his stories with another boomer.

Travis had taken the young crewman under his wing, shown him the ropes, and when Henry Goldman had sought Travisâ€™s opinion about signing on again for this mission to the Expanse, Travis had replied in no uncertain terms. Of course they had to help protect Earth.

And it had been Travis Henry had asked for when heâ€™d been lying in sickbay, his face and body a mass of burned flesh, barely recognisable. Dying.

â€œTell my family what happened,â€ Henry had begged, even as he struggled to breathe. There had been no reproach, no accusation in his tone. â€œAnd succeed, Travis. Make it worthwhile.â€

Travis had nodded seriously as Henry closed his eyes for the last time.

â€œLewellyn, Costas, Naiman â€¦â€

Hoshi stared at the curtain around her biobed without really seeing it. All those names. All those friends. She wondered if the Xindi remembered their dead in this way. In any way. The primates and arboreals seemed fairly close to Humans in their culture and outlook, but what about the reptilians? The insectoids? The aquatics? Did they mourn their dead? Did they hold memorials?

Her mind was wandering, she knew. A side effect of the reptilian parasites. She tried to concentrate. To remember. It was important to remember why her comrades had died, and why she needed to keep on living.

â€œHenderson, Ziegler, Jarman â€¦â€

Captain Jonathan Archer continued to recite the names of the people who had trusted him, who had volunteered for this mission, and who had died as a result. 

Malcolm was right. In the midst of such carnage, it was important to remember, to not let one death merge into another. These people existed only in their memories now. That was the reason heâ€™d decided to hold this memorial, before what he hoped was the final battle.

May there be no more dead, he prayed silently.

â€œ â€¦ for these twenty-one men and women, for seven million others, and for everyone who has given their life in armed conflict, I ask you now for one minuteâ€™s silence.â€

And the ship stood still.

 

THE END


End file.
